


Rings Within Rings

by marieadriana



Series: ARROW, Inc. [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Druids, Established Relationship, Multi, Protective Clint, Secret Marriage, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-21 16:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieadriana/pseuds/marieadriana
Summary: Committed triad Clint, Phil, and Natasha are back at SHIELD after their Christmas getaway, and hard at work training a new, specialized squad of SHIELD Agents who have the dubious honor of being referred to as "The Scooby Squad."  Takes place in March 2011.





	1. Chapter 1

Senior Agent Phil Coulson ran his hands down his face and pressed two fingers against each temple, regarding the agent across his desk with narrowed eyes. “So, your complaint is that Agents Barton and Romanoff are – what, too skilled to train your team?”

Agent Misty Summers did not squirm under his eyes, though her eyes did pinch a little in sympathy with what looked like a wicked headache. Strange, she’d never seen him acknowledge so much as a papercut – it must be a bad one. “No, sir. Or rather, not exactly.” She leaned forward in her chair. “They are the best, sir, at what they do, and we need to learn from the best – but Barton and Romanoff work together so seamlessly that it’s… well… intimidating.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “I know that we need to reach that level of cooperation, but at the moment my team is so disheartened at how far behind them we are that morale is dangerously low.”

Phil reached into his desk drawer for his bottle of acetaminophen, and his hand landed on the canister of tea Catriona had given him for Christmas. He lifted it out instead, standing to use the electric kettle that had found a home in his office in the past year. “Would you like a cup of tea, Agent Summers?” he asked, perfectly calm.

“No, thank you, sir,” she answered, but her brow was furrowed. 

He didn’t address her confusion – it was always good to keep the rookies on their toes – and poured boiling water over the measured strainer of tea into his mug. He returned to his desk, leaving the tea to steep for a moment, and folded his hands in front of him. “Did you have a solution in mind?”

She blinked. “I, uh, have a suggestion, sir, but I wasn’t sure that my input would be welcome.”

Once again, Phil regretted having assigned this team, however briefly, to another handler. The two week vacation they’d had from his leadership in December had set back their training – Phil preferred his agents have initiative and intuition, and the agent they’d been reporting to obviously had done his level best to stomp that out. Two more months with him had repaired some of the damage, but not enough. “Input is always welcome, Agent Summers,” Phil told her with a bland smile. “I will always listen, and if there is leisure I will provide feedback as well.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She hesitated again. “May I speak bluntly, sir?” Phil nodded and gestured for her to go ahead as he removed the strainer from his tea and took a long sip, feeling the headache begin to fade away almost immediately. “Is there anyone at SHIELD that could beat Romanoff at hand-to-hand?”

“I’ve managed to throw her a time or two, but there is no one who can do so consistently.” Phil didn’t allow his smile to show, but he had fond memories of managing to take Natasha down – she generally rewarded him very well.

“Anybody who can beat Barton with a bow? Or even a goddamn sniper rifle?”

Ah, there was the frustration she’d been hiding. He stifled another smile by taking another sip of tea – really, he had no idea how Catriona managed to make something both medicinal and tasty. “There are rumors of an operative out of eastern Europe that may be able to best him with a sniper rifle, but to my knowledge, there is no one at SHIELD with his expertise.” Or, he added mentally, those delicious biceps.

“How the hell am I supposed to learn from someone who is literally the best at what she does, and can’t fathom that not everyone is as skilled as she is?”

Phil paused, mug lifted to his lips, and raised one eyebrow at Summers. “Has Romanoff been abusing her authority?”

“No! Not at all, sir. It’s just – she’ll pin me, and then she’ll look down at me like I’m a bug on a card, and she can’t figure out why I don’t just fly away.” She huffed out a breath, her blonde bangs fluttering slightly. “I know she’s the best, and you know she’s the best – does she?”

He set down his mug slowly, considering. Summers’ squad – which had the dubious pleasure of having been nicknamed the Scooby Squad very early in its formation – was the first that Clint and Natasha had trained since they were bound to Gaia, the Earth Goddess. It was possible that they did not realize how far advanced their skills had become – possible, too, that Natasha really didn’t understand why Summers couldn’t keep up with her.

Eight months ago, before Clint’s Choosing by Gaia and the triad’s subsequent romantic entanglement, Phil would have said that Natasha had no doubts as to her own superiority. That innate confidence – and some would say arrogance – had changed, the longer she was bound to the Goddess and to her husbands. For the first time, he considered that Natasha might not believe herself superior to these trainees – not entirely.

“I would have thought so,” Phil said finally, picking his mug back up. “However, I will have a discussion with Agents Barton and Romanoff about their teaching methods. There has always been a little – shall we say, forced humility? – in their strategy, but you were correct to bring your concerns to me.”

Summers slumped slightly in her chair. “Thank you, sir.” He waited, still sipping tea, sensing that she was not done. “May I ask you a personal question, sir?”

“You may ask,” he said, letting one corner of his lip twitch very slightly. Sooner or later most junior agents couldn’t resist, but their questions were usually harmless.

She looked at her through her bangs, and then let her eyes flicker to his hands – and his wedding ring. Then she met his gaze, one eyebrow raised.

“You can see it?” he asked calmly.

“Yes.” She slumped deeper into her chair. “Why can’t everybody? And does it have anything to do with… Agents Barton and Romanoff? They both wear them, too.”

Phil took a deep breath and drained the mug of tea. He was fiercely thankful that his spouses regularly swept his office for monitoring devices, and that the last check had been this morning. He knew he should deflect the question – or at least take her off site, if he was going to tell her, but… “Agent Summers… Misty.” His use of her first name startled her and she looked up sharply. “I’m not speaking as your commanding officer right now, and you’re not asking as a subordinate, alright?” She nodded. “Our rings have a… charm, for lack of a better word, on them that makes them difficult to notice. You’re the first person to mention them, since we began wearing them in December.”

“It’s March. How has no one else seen them?”

“As I said, it’s some sort of aversion charm.” He smiled, a little crookedly. “I don’t know how it works, but it does. We were told that some people would be able to see through it, but you’re the first that I know of.”

She blew out another breath, bangs fluttering more strongly this time. “Okay, so why are the three of you wearing identical rings with some kind of voodoo you-don’t-see-me spell on them?”

He couldn’t contain the smile, and her surprise to see such an expression on his face amused him even more. “They’re wedding rings, Misty,” Phil said gently. “Clint is our husband, and Natasha is our wife. The voodoo, as you call it, is to protect us from SHIELD policy… and because a relationship like ours is not the norm, and could be subject to… unpleasant scrutiny.”

Phil had always thought that someone’s jaw dropping in shock was hyperbole, but he was seeing it happen now. “How long?” she managed to ask.

“We’ll have been together a year in June. We began wearing the rings in December.” He rubbed his thumb against the inside of his wedding band, taking comfort in it. He’d already mentioned that timetable, but she was shaken enough not to recall his answer. It should have felt odd, telling another member of SHIELD their secret, but his gut told him that Summers could be trusted.

“Fucking hell,” she breathed, and he cocked an eyebrow at her. “It’s no fucking wonder we can’t beat them on the fucking field – I’ve never fucking seen two people so in tune. I thought I was losing my fucking mind.”

After a dumbfounded pause where Phil mentally counted her f-bombs – five, in as many seconds – he started to laugh. He hadn’t laughed in days, he realized, not since Clint had dumped pancake batter all over his own naked chest while trying to flick the spatula at Natasha.

If anything, his laughter confused Summers more. “Sir?” she asked, now wondering if he was quite alright.

He waved her concern aside and straightened his tie. “I’m sorry, Misty, I didn’t mean to laugh at you – or rather, I was laughing at your reaction, but certainly not intending to offend. As you can imagine, we haven’t told many people – Clint’s family, my family – so I wasn’t expecting your reaction to be so… colorful.”

To her absolute horror, she blushed. Jesus, it was bad enough she’d asked a question that wound up being about her boss’s sex life, but then she’d lost all control over her tact and cursed in front of a man who, if rumor was to be believed, never used profanity. 

“Relax,” he said drily. “I’m married to Clint Barton – I’ve heard it all before.”

She snickered, then paled. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh at –”

“You’re not laughing at him, you’re laughing at the fact that it’s entirely true,” Phil said with a kind smile. “I know that scuttlebutt says I’ve had my sense of humor surgically removed, but I assure you that it’s quite intact.”

She snickered again, but didn’t cover it up. “Your secret is safe with me, sir. That, and the big one.” She nodded at his wedding ring. “I don’t know why I can see it, sir, but I won’t mention it again.”

“I had a feeling you’d be able to keep it quiet, since you can see it,” he said with a small smile. “The power behind that particular charm has our best interests at heart.”

Summers didn’t know what to make of that, but she nodded anyway. “Thank you, sir, for taking the time to speak with me today.” She stood and he did as well, buttoning his suit jacket automatically.

“Anytime, Agent Summers.” He walked her to the door, but paused before opening it. “I will have to tell Clint and Natasha that you know,” he said quietly. “It won’t affect their behavior negatively, but I won’t hide it from them.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, sir.” She offered him a smile that was both warm and a little wistful. “Belated congratulations on your marriage, sir.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at her again and saw her out of his office.

~ * ~


	2. Chapter 2

Phil returned to his desk and sent brief messages to Clint and Natasha through their SHIELD communicators to please come to his office when their current schedule allowed. Then he sent Natasha a text to their private phones that read “Part work, part not.” All three of them preferred to know whether the tone was personal or professional when they were alone – it helped them maintain some level of professionalism.

He resumed the report he’d been writing before Agent Summers entered his office, and had nearly completed it when Clint knocked lightly on the door. “You needed to see us, sir?” he asked, gesturing to Natasha. His voice was properly deferential – with the same contained humor it has always bore – and Natasha was as inscrutable as ever.

“Yes, thank you Agent Barton, Agent Romanoff. Come in, please. Shut the door.” He stood when they entered, reaching into his desk drawer for their coffee mugs. He handed Clint both of them, and Clint moved to pour coffee in his and make tea for Natasha.

Once the door was shut, Phil slid out of his suit jacket and hung it neatly on the back of his desk chair before walking around the desk to kiss Natasha, very softly, and do the same to Clint. He couldn’t resist touching them, but he did his best to keep it light.

“You okay?” Clint asked, eyes inspecting for any sign of stress in his husband.

“Fine,” Phil answered with a smile. “I had a headache earlier, but a cup of Catriona’s tea cured it.”

“The headache caused by whatever we’re here for?” Natasha asked, sitting down on the couch. Clint handed her the mug of tea she preferred and sat down next to her. 

“Yes.” There was no point in lying to them – not only were they highly trained agents accustomed to looking for falsehoods, they were his beloveds. “It’s about Summers’ squad.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Just call it the Scooby Squad, MB. Everyone else does.”

Phil ignored the nickname, as he usually did. It was short for ‘Moonbeam’ and while he found it incredibly romantic – Clint had called Natasha his sun and Phil his moon – he felt ridiculous being referred to by such an uncharacteristically saccharine name. “Very well,” Phil said, sitting down on Clint’s other side. “Summers came to me with an interesting problem.”

“Interesting like, Smithsonian interesting or interesting like ‘may you live in interesting times’ interesting?” Clint asked warily.

Phil considered it a mark of how long they’d known each other than he completely understood the question. “More the former than the latter. Apparently, her squad is experiencing a morale problem related to the fact that the two of you are – what was it she said –” Phil tipped his head back to recall the exact phrasing, smiling at the memory, “’We can’t beat them on the fucking field – I’ve never fucking seen two people so in tune.’ There was a bit more profanity in the whole comment, but you get the idea.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “If they cannot beat us, they are not working hard enough.”

Phil put his hand to his forehead and groaned. “Headache again?” Clint asked worriedly.

“Yes, and it’s all your fault,” he said without rancor. “Natasha. Do you honestly think any of them have the chance to best you in the ring?”

“Of course,” she answered automatically.

Clint and Phil exchanged glances. “Uh, Sunshine, I hate to break it to you but… they don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, even eight against one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Natasha waved a dismissive hand. “They’re well trained. If they were to cooperate properly, they could have me pinned in a matter of moments.”

When Phil rubbed his temple again, Clint set aside his coffee to make a second cup of Catriona’s headache remedy for his husband. “Nat. Love.” Phil reached across the now-empty center cushion and took her hand. “How is it that you think they should be cooperating, that they haven’t already tried?”

She frowned at him. “They telegraph their moves so loudly that a yellow belt would see them coming – and they have no way of communicating amongst each other that I cannot intercept.”

“Are you serious?” Clint asked incredulously, handing Phil the fresh cup of herbal tea. “Nat, they’re not telepathic. They’re SHIELD agents, not Warriors.”

Natasha blinked and sat back. She wasn’t used to either of her husbands acting as though she was in the wrong. She began to review her own conduct, scrutinizing it carefully, trying to see it from an outside perspective.

Clint sat back down, slipping his free hand around Phil’s waist. “I’m guessing there were complaints about my unattainable goals too?” he asked warily.

“She wasn’t really complaining,” Phil temporized. “She was looking for a way to make it work. She knows you’re the best – wants her team trained by the best. But she’s leader enough to know that somethings not working right now, and she wants to fix it.”

“It’s a good thing I know you’re not into leggy blondes, or I’d think you’re sweet on her,” Natasha snarked, her mind still analyzing past behavior. Phil chose not to be offended by her comment, recognizing that she was inwardly distracted. 

“What, I don’t count as a blond?” Clint complained.

“You’re not leggy,” Natasha answered.

“It would help, a great deal, if either of you could acknowledge to them that you do not expect them to achieve the same level that you have,” Phil said gently. “Aside from superior training and your Red Room serum, Nat, you are both Goddess Chosen – mere humans could never compare. Misty’s damned good – she threw Hill last week – but she thinks she’s failing because she can’t best you, Nat.”

“Misty?” Clint repeated with a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll get to that,” Phil promised.

Natasha sipped her tea, adding Phil’s words to her calculations. He was right, damn him. She had been expecting the Scooby Squad to meet her standards – standards which were no longer possible to meet, outside a select group of individuals. Possibly not even among other Warriors, because they would have neither her serum nor her telepathic connection to Clint. “Have I mentioned lately how infuriating it is that you’re always right?” she asked finally.

Phil chuckled and eased himself more comfortably into the couch and Clint’s arm. “I’m sorry, love.”

She shot him a disapproving look at the use of a pet name – they tried to keep those out of conversation unless they were at home. MB could be forgiven – no one could guess what that meant – but there’s wasn’t much they could do to explain away of the rest of them. “I don’t know how to train them any differently, Phil.” Natasha didn’t like admitting her weaknesses, but it was becoming easier with her husbands.

“I know.” He tilted his head back, resting it against the back of the couch. The second cup of Catriona’s tea had dulled his headache, but not banished it completely. He didn’t mention that to his spouses, though, knowing they’d worry. “It isn’t that your training method is wrong – it’s that it no longer works, with your higher level of competence.” Phil slid his eyes over to her, giving her a small smile. “If it makes you feel any better, the rookies don’t think it’s a failure on your part either – Summers is determined to have a squad as effective in the field as the pair of you.”

Clint snorted. “Here I thought she had a good head on her shoulders.”

“She does,” Phil objected. “And there’s something… else about her.” At a raised eyebrow from each of them, he sighed – and did not rub his forehead, though he wanted to. “She can see our rings.” Natasha made a low noise in her throat, something close to a growl, and Clint put a hand on her knee – either in comfort or restraint, Phil wasn’t sure. “She asked me about them and… I told her.”

“You told her.” Natasha’s tone was absolutely emotionless, and Clint winced. That was never good. “What possessed you to tell a – a – fucking rookie –”

Phil reached over Clint’s lap to touch Natasha’s leg as well, his hand brushing Clint’s. It was unusual for her to swear, at least in English, and he didn’t need to be part of their telepathic communication to know that Clint was being bombarded with her fury. “There was solid reasoning on my part,” Phil said quietly. “If I could have, I’d have asked before I said anything – but there wasn’t time.”

“It had better be damned good reasoning,” Natasha replied, still tense under their hands.

“In the months we’ve been back – been wearing our rings – no one that didn’t already know about them has mentioned them. I took that to mean that the Goddess was protecting us, in Her own way. So the fact that Misty could see them – not just mine, but all three – told me there had to be a reason for Gaia to allow her to see them.” Phil squeezed Natasha’s leg gently. “I don’t know what the reason is, but I have put too much work into Misty Summers already to ruin her trust by lying to her – not when it appears she has the Goddess’s blessing.”

Clint sighed and squeezed Natasha’s leg also. “I think I’d have done the same, Sunshine,” he told her. She glared at him for the nickname, too, but nodded shortly. “Mind you, I don’t like it,” he told Phil. “It’s one thing to tell our families… it’s another to start telling coworkers.”

“I know.” Phil released Natasha’s leg and settled back against the couch, giving in to the impulse to rub his forehead again. “I hadn’t intended to, but…”

“Treorai,” Natasha said, her voice much softer now, and she leaned around Clint to look directly at Phil. “Do you still have a headache?” She stood and moved to stand in front of him, touching his temples gently.

There was no point in denying it, even though he felt ridiculous that they were making a fuss over a simple tension headache. “It’s better,” he tried to reassure them.

“Do we need to drag you down to Medical?” Clint asked, tightening his arm around Phil’s waist. Natasha continued to touch Phil’s face, her fingers oddly soothing.

“No,” Phil said firmly. “It’s just a headache, loves.”

“A headache that two cups of Catriona’s tea can’t fix?” Natasha asked lightly.

“All the more reason not to go to Medical.” Phil closed his eyes. “I have no idea what’s in that tea of hers, and I don’t know that Medical should find out.”

That was a fair point. Still, Natasha wasn’t going to drop the subject. “Perhaps we should have Catriona look at you, then.”

Phil opened his eyes and glared up at her. “I’m fine.”

“Mmmhmm.” Natasha bent down and kissed his forehead, very gently. “We have rules about that word, loverling,” she murmured in his ear.

“Now who’s breaking the name rules?” Clint grumbled, but there was no heat in it.

“Can you reach Gaia from here, dearling?” Natasha asked Clint, still rubbing small circles in Phil’s temples. He had to admit, it felt good.

“No, but I can call Catriona,” Clint answered smugly. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in her contact info. “Finally got her to accept a phone.” He waited as it rang. “Hey sis. I don’t suppose you’re free at the moment? It’s not urgent… well, Phil’s got a headache that two cups of tea didn’t fix and Nat and I are being obsessively worried spouses… yeah, two cups of yours. Well, hell, I didn’t know today was a ritual day – don’t worry about it. No, really, sis, I don’t want you to wear yourself too thin—” He stopped speaking and lowered the phone to stare at it. “She hung up on me.”

“When did you get her to take the phone?” Natasha asked curiously.

“Last time she was here – I told her I felt like I was disrespecting Big Mama, using her as a messenger service.” Clint was justifiably smug – none of the other arguments they’d tried had been effective.

Phil sighed again, sinking deeper into the couch. “You two are impossible.” His words could have come off as harsh, but there was an undercurrent to them that spoke instead of love and gratitude.

“Aye, they are,” Catriona said from near the desk. All three turned to look at her, and she smiled. “Still not used to the plane-walking, I see.” She stepped to the office door and turned the deadbolt – the illegally installed deadbolt that Phil had taken great pains to hide from Directory Fury. There were times – like now – that he needed to be absolutely certain that no one walked in the door uninvited.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” Phil said wryly. “It’s a bit science-fiction-y for me.”

“Nothing scientific about it, treorai.” She smiled at him as she approached, bare feet flickering under her white robe. “Now, let’s see if I can help.” Catriona gestured for Natasha to step aside. The druid sat down on the arm of the couch next to Phil and touched two fingers to his temple. After a moment, she pulled back, frowning.

Natasha and Clint exchanged glances. “Is it bad?” Natasha asked as calmly as she could.

“Not exactly,” Catriona answered absently, tilting her head to one side and still looking at Phil. “When was the last time that you had a headache this persistent?”

Phil tried to think. “We were at the Inn.” He ran the days over in his mind. “It was before Christmas, I know that much.”

“Would it happen to have been the one I healed for you, the day after Yule?” Catriona prompted.

“Probably.” Phil hunched his shoulders and relaxed them, hoping to ease some of the tension in his neck. 

“Sis, if you don’t explain pretty quick, Nat and I are going to go nuts,” Clint told the druid. His tone was just light enough to be written off as a joke, but there was genuine fear in his eyes.

Catriona leaned forward and kissed Phil’s temple. She held it longer than he’d expected – but he felt blessed relief from the pain radiate outwards from her kiss and didn’t object. When she pulled back, she touched the spot again with her fingers, this time a gentle benediction. “I will have to consult with Gaia to be sure – and I will – but it appears they are tied to the Druidic holy days.” At Natasha’s start of surprise, Catriona continued. “I know that you had one on Litha – midsummer – because that was the day that Clint was chosen, and I was here. You had one at Yule – midwinter – and today is Ostara. Do you recall if you had one on Mabon? Mid to late September?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” Phil answered honestly. He wriggled deeper into the couch and Clint’s arm, letting out a long sigh as tight muscles relaxed. He hadn’t been willing to admit to himself how severe the headache had gotten – until it was gone.

“Why would he be affected by the rituals?” Natasha asked sharply.

Catriona raised one eyebrow at the tone, but answered calmly. “I am not certain, achara, which is why I will need to consult with the Great Mother about it before I can say definitively that they are the cause.”

Natasha grimaced. “Sorry.” She stepped up to the couch and hugged Catriona. “I’m snappish because I’m worried,” she whispered in the druid’s ear.

“I know, achara,” the druid whispered back, stroking Natasha’s hair soothingly. “We will get it sorted out.”

“I wish I had time for a nap.” Phil yawned, letting his head fall onto Clint’s shoulder.

“Make time,” Clint suggested. “Nat and I’ve got to get back to the recruits, but you should sack out for an hour or so.”

“I will stay with you, treorai,” Catriona told him, when he began to object. “Sleep will do you well, and if we leave you to your own devices, you will go back to work without resting.”

Natasha chuckled. “She’s right.” She pressed a kiss to Phil’s forehead.

“I know she is,” Phil admitted, and smiled up at Natasha. Clint forced himself to let go of Phil and occupied himself by retrieving the blanket and pillow Phil kept in a drawer. Catriona took Clint’s place, tucking herself against Phil.

“See you at home,” Natasha said, unbolting the door and stepping out. Clint followed her, taking one last look at Phil before shutting the door behind him.

~ * ~


	3. Chapter 3

{Okay, I’m freaked out, Sunshine,} Clint said silently as they walked through the maze of corridors back to the training facilities.

{I know.} Her eyes flickered to his briefly, though not many people would have noticed. {I am too.}

{I’m not sure if that makes me feel better, or worse.} He nodded to another agent they passed, trying his damnedest to act normal.

Natasha made a very small noise of amusement. {Don’t shoot for normal, dearling. You’ll scare the other agents.}

He made a face at her. They reentered the gym where the Scooby Squad was sparring, some in the ring and others on the mats spread out across the floor. Summers’ eyes flicked to them briefly before returning to her opponent.

{You mind if I handle this, Sunshine?}

{Be my guest.}

“Alright, kids,” Clint called, loudly enough to be heard over the noise of eight athletic adults. “Campfire.” Dutifully they converged on him, some grabbing water bottles or towels. “We just got a dressing down from Agent Coulson for unreasonable expectations – and as usual, he’s right.”

{You’re going with that?} Natasha asked incredulously, though her expression stayed neutral.

{Yup. If Phil wants to go with honesty, I see no reason not to follow his lead.} Clint smiled at the eight squad members, one of his genuine ones. “I won’t apologize for expecting each of you to push yourself to do your best – but I will apologize for making anyone feel as though their best ought to match mine – or Agent Romanoff’s.” He grinned wryly. “Apparently, I shouldn’t expect second year SHIELD agents to best my ten years of SHIELD training and several years freelance before that.”

There were dry chuckles, as well as at least one relieved sigh. Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Nor I. I freelanced longer than Barton did, and for organizations which did not tolerate anything less than perfection. I would not wish you to be trained by the same methods used on me.”

After a quick glance at her squadmates, Summers spoke up. “We appreciate that, agents.”

“So, now what?” Bellamy asked, mopping his shaved head with a towel. “Maybe we can’t get as good as you two right away, but I sure as hell ain’t done learning from you.”

Natasha smiled wickedly. “Oh no. You’re not,” she assured him. He paled slightly at the anticipation in her tone.

“To start with, I want to start you learning some more communications techniques,” Clint told them. “One of the reasons Romanoff and I work so well together is that we’ve developed our own signals over the years, gestures that we can use in the field to indicate our plan or to coordinate an attack. As Agent Coulson pointed out – correctly, damn it –” There were more chuckles at that. “We don’t even realize we’re using them, half the time.”

{We don’t use them, half the time,} Natasha said dryly. {Only when there are others around.}

Clint ignored her and continued to speak to the Scooby Squad. “Any of you know ASL?” There was one nod, from Cartegena – unsurprisingly, as he was their language specialist. “Damn. Well, we can start there anyway,” he said with a sigh. “Now, you don’t want to use pure ASL in the field – there’s always the chance that your target is fluent also. But it’s a good place to start.” He shaped his hands into a sign. “Now, this means ‘fish’ but when Romanoff and I use it in the field, it means ‘no luck finding what we’re looking for’ – like in Go Fish, the card game…”

He continued showing them signs, with Natasha assisting, as the squad drew nearer to begin tightening their communications.

~ * ~

When Clint dismissed the squad for the day, Agent Summers hung back. He’d guessed she would, and made it easy for her to pull him aside. “Did Agent Coulson really give you a dressing down?” she asked quietly.

Clint couldn’t help but smile at her – she was so young, and so earnest. “No. Just a wake-up call. You were right – we were putting unfair pressure you. He was damned impressed by the way you handled it.”

“Did he mention… anything else?” she asked, her eyes flicking to his left hand.

“He told us,” Clint confirmed. 

“And I’m not dead yet,” Summers marveled.

Natasha chuckled. The junior agent hadn’t heard her come up behind her but masterfully stifled her urge to jump like a scalded cat. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for dinner off-site, to discuss more training tactics for your team?” she offered casually.

{Really?} Clint’s eyes were bugged out even though his exclamation had been silent. 

{If there is something about her that makes her special to the Goddess, I’d like to know about it – and perhaps introduce her to Catriona.}

Their exchange had been brief enough that Summers didn’t appear to notice a lapse. “That would be great,” she told them with obvious relief. “Where would you like to eat?”

“I’ll text you an address,” Clint promised.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” She saluted hastily and dashed towards the locker room before her squad mates would be suspicious of her absence.

~ * ~

Phil wasn’t certain if it had been the rest or the company, but he was feeling considerably more human when his eyes opened two hours later. Catriona was still asleep, curled up on top of him like a warm, breathing afghan. He debated letting her sleep, but he knew the deadbolt wasn’t locked – it was sheer happenstance they hadn’t been interrupted yet, and he didn’t feel like dealing with the fuss likely to occur if she were found in his office – again.

“Time to get up, little one,” he murmured into her hair, surprised that it hadn’t tickled his face as they slept. She nuzzled against him sleepily and he chuckled. The movement of his chest seemed to wake her more fully, and she lifted her head to smile at him. “Time to get up,” he repeated.

She slid off of him and stood, stretching. “You seem better, treorai.” She offered him a hand as he stood up, then stepped close enough to straighten his tie.

“I am.” He smiled down at her. “Can you stay? Not here in the office,” he hastened to add. “But at the house? For dinner?”

“Are you offering to cook?” she asked, eyes lighting up. “I would be delighted to join you for supper.”

He smiled again. “Do you know how to find it? What do you need, an address? Coordinates?”

“An address will suffice. I will plane-walk into it, if you do not mind, and spend some time in your kitchen. Doubtless you have herbs that I can revitalize!” She wrinkled her nose, and Coulson bit back another grin – she looked about seven years old when she did that. “I do not know how two Chosen of Gaia and their guide cannot manage to keep a simple window garden healthy.”

“Well, if we did, you wouldn’t have as much reason to come visit,” Phil told her lightly as he scribbled their current address on a piece of scratch paper.

She grinned. “I will see you at home, treorai.” Between one moment and the next, she had disappeared.

Phil folded the blanket and tucked it and the pillow back into their usual drawer. He returned to his desk, feeling more relaxed and rested than he would have thought a brief nap would leave him – but then, Catriona always was restful company. He resumed the report he’d been working on – for the third time today – and actually managed to complete it and move on to the next task before there was another knock on his door. He rose to answer it, buttoning his jacket.

“Director Fury, please come in,” Phil said politely, gesturing for the director to take a seat in front of his desk. Fury sat, steepling his fingers and watching Phil closely.

“You got a reason for suddenly changing the training routine with Summers’ squad?” the director asked finally. Typically he waited for a subordinate to get edgy, but Coulson showed no signs of that, at least none that Fury could recognize.

“I did,” Coulson nodded. “Agent Summers came to me with some suggestions, and they were worth putting into practice.”

“They include having Agents Barton and Romanoff spend the afternoon wiggling their fingers at the rookies, instead of actually training them?”

Phil gave him a bland smile. They both knew this was a ruse – Fury was well aware of the nonverbal communications needed by a field team, and doubtless he’d have insisted that the squad be instructed in it if Barton hadn’t taken the initiative. “Improving their communications skills can only increase the team cohesion, sir.”

“Yeah, except typically you prefer a hands-on approach, given it’s your voice going to be on their comms,” Fury pointed out. “Not like you, Phil. Out of character.”

“Barton and Romanoff are capable of teaching nonverbals, sir,” Phil reminded the director. 

“Still…” Fury stood, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing in the room, his trench coat fluttering behind him. Phil fought urge to grab the edge and yank it as ‘You don’t tug on Superman’s cape’ played in his head. “It begs the question what you thought was more important to spend your time on than your hand-picked squad.” Fury paused next to Phil, who was still seated at his desk. “Must have been… vital.” He leaned over and plucked one long, spiral curled red hair from Phil’s collar.

~ * ~


	4. Chapter 4

It was only decades of self-control that prevented Phil’s mental invective from spewing out of his mouth in a foul cloud. Of course, Fury would just drop by at a time when Phil had actually been sleeping on the job – and with a woman that the Director disliked to the point of open hostility. He wished, perversely, that he still had a headache – because rubbing his temples in frustration seemed like the only appropriate response.

Instead, he carefully shored up his professional dignity and smiled blandly. “It was. You can check with Agents Barton and Romanoff if you do not believe me,” he added, careful to keep any hint of defensiveness out of his tone. 

“And will I get the truth?” Fury demanded. “Those two would sell their own mothers for you, Coulson.”

“As neither of them have mothers living, it would be a very poor bargain,” Phil said coolly. He straightened his tie and picked up a pen. “Was there something else I could help you with, sir?”

Fury watched him for a long moment, his single eye boring into Phil as though hoping it would reveal his innermost thoughts. Phil stayed relaxed, pen poised over a sheet of notepaper, looking up expectantly at his supervisor as though anticipating orders.

“No, Agent Coulson,” Fury responded, striding to the door. “Not at this time.”

When the door shut behind him, Phil let out his carefully controlled breath and rested his head in his hands. It had never connected in his mind that Fury would assume his mystery significant other was Catriona – though it made entirely too much sense, when he gave it due consideration. Unfortunately, it was unlikely to benefit their working relationship. Phil wasn’t sure exactly what incidents had happened between the Director and the druid in the past, but he’d never seen Catriona behave as imperiously with anyone else as she did with Fury – and that man had seemed ready to strike her, without provocation and in the presence of witnesses.

No, Fury couldn’t have leapt to a worse conclusion.

Phil dug his private phone out of the inner suit pocket it lived in, and sent Natasha a text message. It wasn’t exactly coded, but they’d agreed on some name and phrase alterations, in case their “secure” phones were nothing of the sort.

REMUS: Mad-eye just left. Thinks I’m snogging Hermione. Might try to talk to you & Fawkes.

TONKS: These names won’t work if I have to picture you & Emma Watson.

REMUS: Ha. Worse than us and a phoenix?

TONKS: Point. Dinner?

REMUS: Hermione is joining us.

TONKS: So is Buffy.

REMUS: WTF?

TONKS: Your idea to trust her.

Phil rubbed his forehead reflexively, though the headache hadn’t returned. Natasha always did like to rock the boat – he ought to be used to it by now. Inviting Misty for dinner wasn’t her usual tactic, but it was a reasonable idea – it would be a good idea to go over the ground rules with her in a place that they need not worry about being overheard. Another message buzzed through as he was thinking.

TONKS: I want her to meet Hermione.

REMUS: Ah. Wise as usual.

TONKS: I leave wise to you. BTW, adorable that you swear in text and not in person. See you at home.

He let her have the last word – the conversation was likely to drag on for hours if he didn’t – and tucked the phone back into its secure hiding space. It shouldn’t surprise him that she wanted Misty to meet Catriona – whatever caused her to be able to see their rings, it was likely Catriona had an explanation. 

Phil ruthlessly shoved his personal considerations aside and, returning to the ever-present stack of paperwork on his desk, resumed the comforting monotony of bureaucratic paperwork.

~ * ~

The second session of sparring – three Scoobies against Natasha at a time, now using their nonverbal signals to coordinate attacks – left the trainees feeling more hopeful. They hadn’t managed to pin her, of course, but none of them had felt the same bone-weary hopelessness that previous sessions had led to.

Clint gestured for them all to follow him down to the shooting range. One of the trainees groaned – Clint thought it was probably Mackey – but he ignored it. Natasha stepped into one of the shooting stalls, slid on eye and ear protection, and programed a target. At Clint’s nod that the rest of them had also geared up appropriately, she drew her sidearm and emptied her sixteen round magazine into the target. She cleared the weapon, placed it on the table, and recalled her target. As she did this, Clint gestured for the rest of them to remove their hearing protection. “So, from today on, I expect everyone except Forrester to meet this standard.” He gestured to Natasha’s target, which showed a score that, while high, was not unachievable. She had purposely not drawn on Gaia’s gifts, done as much as she could to make this something that others could meet – without pandering to them.

“What about me?” Forrester asked. “And can you please call me CJ? I really hate being called Forrester.”

“You’ll be training to come closer to my standards,” Clint told him with a small smile. “I’ve seen your scores – pre-SHIELD and in training. You’re capable of more. I think you’ve been holding back, so that you didn’t leave your team behind. Adams has been doing the same thing in hand-to-hand, and Edwards and Mackey haven’t been pushing themselves as hard in the bookwork as they could be, either.” There were a few guilty flushes at that, but Clint waved them away. “Don’t. I should have caught it sooner.”

“What he means to say,” Natasha interrupted, letting her words drawl slightly, “is that we were too busy congratulating ourselves on training you that we neglected your specialties. It won’t happen again.”

Misty bit her lip, the only sign of hesitation, before speaking. “If we’re all secure in our positions on the team – and it sounds like we are – then as squad leader, I’d like to ask that you refer to us by our first names or call names.” At Clint’s surprised look, she continued. “The best teams – pairs or larger squads – are a unit physically and psychologically.” Her eyes hinted at her knowledge of Clint and Natasha’s marriage to Phil, but she neither mentioned it nor glanced at their rings. “Not all of us served in the military, and there’s something impersonal about calling each other by our surnames.”

“Well reasoned,” Natasha murmured, glancing at Clint. {I’ve got no problems with it, dearling, but I don’t know if I want them to call me Natasha.}

“We can do that,” Clint told the group, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You can keep calling us Barton and Romanoff, or Hawkeye and Widow. In our lives, first names are for off-duty – it’s part of how we keep personal and professional separate.”

“Thank you, sir,” Misty said with a genuine smile.

“So I know you prefer CJ,” Clint pointed at Forrester. “Mackey?”

“Lance,” he answered, at the same time his squadmates chorused “Lancelot.”

Clint grinned. “Oh yeah. I like this idea. Bellamy?”

“Charles or Chuck, but anyone who calls me Charlie is in for it,” he answered with a grin. “Only my mama can get away with that.”

“I sympathize,” Natasha said, very seriously. “There’s a very privileged group of individuals who refer to me as Auntie Nat – and if I ever hear that pass your lips, it’ll be the last thing that does.” There were chuckles at that, though Natasha was serious. “Summers?”

“Well, I prefer Misty,” she answered with a sigh, “but there’s no point in pretending they’ll call me anything but Buffy.”

Bellamy – Chuck – smacked her companionably on the shoulder. “That’s what you get, having the last name Summers, a wickedly good aim with pointy objects, and long blonde hair.”

“The hair can be changed, if it bothers you that much,” Natasha pointed out. 

“Nah, it’s okay,” Misty said with a tolerant grin. “Cartegena won’t tell you what we call him – but it’s Alley Cat.”

“Alphonse Edward,” he corrected automatically.

“If you think I’m calling you Alphonse, you’ve got another think coming,” Clint said with a grin. “And AC is out, too, so I think you’re stuck with Alley Cat.”

“Why is AC out?” Mackey – Lance – asked curiously.

“Agent Coulson,” Clint and Natasha responded in unison. “Not that you’ll get away with it to his face, but sometimes on comms,” Clint amended. “Edwards?”

“Angie, please. I don’t know what my parents were thinking, naming me Angela Grace.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. Angie was the newest member of the squad, replacing the ill-mannered McNair – she was a talented hacker and could manage to make all manner of useful equipment out of scraps. Clint wished he could get her a couple of hours with Tony Stark – they’d be two peas in a pod.

“That leaves Doc – which is obvious,” Natasha said with a smile. “Can’t imagine why your squad doesn’t want to call you Ramanujan all the time, Doc.”

Their field medic grinned. Despite the traditional Indian name, his accent was pure California. “It’s a bit long for the field. I’m just glad I’d already established myself as a medic before anyone thought up ‘Ramen.’”

“You know, we could change that –” CJ said with a wicked grin.

“Not on your life,” Doc responded easily.

“That leaves you, Adams – what’s your preference?”

The third woman on the squad wrinkled her nose. “Sam. Please.”

“Sam Adams?” Clint repeated incredulously.

She sighed. “Samantha. The idea that I’d want to be called Sam apparently never cross my parents’ minds.”

“Well. I can’t promise I won’t slip up and call you by your surname – I’ve been a SHIELD agent a long time – but I’ll do my best,” Clint promised them. “Now, let’s get some gunpowder in the air. I want ten targets, eight shots each, from each of you – and CJ, you’re with me.”

Leaving Natasha to supervise the other seven agents, Clint pulled CJ into the farthest stall and leaned back against the barrier. He checked to make sure that the other agents were out of earshot – they were, but hadn’t yet donned their protective gear. It looked like Natasha was running them through some draw drills. He refocused his attention on CJ, who looked nervous. “Coulson let me read the unredacted version of your file,” Clint said quietly. He didn’t want to spook the agent – and plenty in that file would spook a person – but he needed to let CJ know that he’d read it. “The unredacted version isn’t on SHIELD property, and there’s a grand total of three individuals with access to it.”

“That’s a relief,” CJ muttered. He was trying to sound defiant, but Clint could see through it – it was too much like his own responses.

“I didn’t figure you knew my own past.” Clint crossed his arms defensively, hating that he still felt uneasy discussing it.

{You’re doing the right thing, dearling,} Natasha told him silently, flicking her eyes to his in a glance so quick he doubted anyone else had seen it.

{I know. I love you.} He felt her pleasure at his words – she was always surprised by them – and returned his attention to CJ. “I was a trick shot in a traveling carnival, and when I couldn’t handle that life anymore, I went freelance. I’m not proud of some of the things I did to keep myself fed.” CJ’s eyes had widened the longer he spoke, until Clint had to wonder if somebody’s eyes really could pop out. “And before you ask, Romanoff knows too – and her past is worse than yours.” At that, the trainee’s jaw dropped. “Look, I’m not telling you this to dredge up the past, and I won’t ask you to talk about it – but you’re not the only one with demons.” Clint unfolded his arms and straightened up from the defensive posture he’d sunk into. “Agent Coulson didn’t pick you for this team in spite of your past – he picked you because of it. We – I guess you could call us the damaged ones – tend to wind up under Coulson because he sees it as an asset rather than a liability.”

CJ was silent, his eyes trained on Clint’s, looking for any hint of deception. Even if Clint hadn’t read the man’s file, he’d have known something of his background just from the intensity of his scrutiny. “Okay. Why are you telling me this?”

Clint grinned. “Partly so that you know you’re not alone, and partly because now that you know I shot in the circus, you’ll appreciate more why I don’t expect you to match my score. I hadn’t even hit puberty yet when I was shooting dimes out of the air.”

“Dimes?” CJ repeated.

“Sometimes, if they were feeling charitable, quarters.”

“Damn,” the recruit breathed, and there was awed respect in his tone. “Can you still do that?”

Clint opened his bow case, readying his weapon automatically, and handing CJ a stack of coins. “Why don’t we find out?”

~ * ~


	5. Chapter 5

The recruits had been dismissed and Clint and Natasha were practicing on their own in the shooting range when Director Fury arrived. Clint had switched from bow to a sidearm that matched Natasha’s, though he continued to outshoot her. When they had paused in their shooting and removed their hearing protection, Fury cleared his throat.

“Director, what brings you down here?” Clint asked in mock-surprise. Natasha had informed him of the text conversation, of course, and Clint had been half expecting the Director all afternoon.

“A conversation that I’d rather not be having,” Fury told them candidly. He leaned against one divider, his arms crossed in a position nearly identical to the one Clint had held earlier. “Do you know who Coulson is dating?”

Though the question had been directed at Clint, Natasha answered it. “Of course we do.”

“And…?” Fury prompted with strained patience.

“And he has asked us not to reveal that information, and I’m disinclined to betray his trust,” Natasha replied easily. 

“And if I order you to tell me?”

“I’d have a copy of my resignation on your desk in a half hour – and I expect there would be one from Coulson and one from Barton as well.”

Clint nodded. “Isn’t SHIELD business,” he added. His usual flippancy was gone, and his mind was chaotic with the need to protect Phil, protect her, protect Catriona – keep Fury at a distance.

Fury uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. It was a familiar move – Phil used it to emphasize his points when speaking, but it was unexpectedly menacing, coming from the director. “If I find out that any of you have leaked SHIELD information to that… that… witch, you’ll be out on your ass so fast you’ll have road rash.”

“Duly noted,” Natasha responded calmly. “It won’t be an issue.” Her eyes slid sideways to Clint. {Loosen up. He’s trying to rile us up.}

{It’s working,} Clint ground out in reply, but he did ease his body posture into something more normal. He didn’t speak aloud again, though, knowing his control was slipping.

“See that it isn’t,” Fury ordered, before striding out of the shooting range.

As soon as Clint heard the door latch behind the director, he leaned against the stall divider and sunk down to the floor, resting his head against his knees. Natasha crouched in front of him, touching his face lightly. {You can’t fall apart here, dearling. You know there are cameras.}

{I can’t keep it together right now, Sunshine.} He shuddered, pulling away from her touch. {And I’ll completely lose it if you get tender on me. This can just be written off as shock from nearly being ordered to betray our handler, if anyone looks at the tapes.}

She acknowledged that, giving his shoulder a pat and standing to clean her weapon and begin putting the range back to rights. Clint stayed on the ground, his forehead pressed into one knee, trying to force himself back to calm. {Catriona did say it’s a ritual day,} Natasha remarked as she disassembled her weapon to clean it. {Maybe you’re getting a hit of whatever I got at midwinter?}

{What, this sudden violent protectiveness is what I get instead of being insatiable in bed? I like yours better,} he grumbled.

{I had plenty of other reactions, dearling. Or don’t you remember me scaring Rose half to death by sobbing into her shoulder?} Natasha’s face was serene when he glanced up at her, but her mind was replaying the event, complete with emotional echoes and an odd sense of shame.

Clint couldn’t stifle the growl that rose up. {No shame, Sunshine.} Even his mental voice was rough. {Goddess, right now I feel like I could tear apart anyone who makes you feel like that. Bare handed.}

She tilted her head at him, realizing that he wasn’t exaggerating, and he was doing his best to shield her from the roiling anger inside him. “Well, Barton, the babies are off for supper and bed – let’s get out of here,” she said aloud, and offered him a hand up.

He took it, letting her hoist him to his feet. He fought with himself to release her hand, grinding his teeth hard enough that she could hear it. “Good idea,” he managed to say, in a reasonably normal tone. “I could use a beer, a burger, and a bimbo.”

She elbowed him in the side and he forced a laugh, trying not to bristle as eyes turned appreciatively towards her.

It was going to be a long ride home.

~ * ~

Natasha unlocked the back door of their current safe house and bodily shoved Clint through it. He didn’t resist, too worn out from trying to act normal for the forty-five-minute trip home. It would have been shorter if they’d taken public transport, but the thought of someone brushing up against Natasha had caused such a surge of incoherent jealousy that Natasha had vetoed that plan and opted for walking home.

“I’m so sorry, Nat,” Clint was saying again, and this time she did snap at him – something she’d managed to avoid thus far.

“I know you’re sorry, damn it. I can feel it in your idiot brain! Great Merciful Mother, if you’re like this now, how the hell are you going to be when I’m pregnant?” She wished she hadn’t said it as soon as the words were out of her mouth – because Clint doubled over like she’d gut punched him. “I’m sorry, dearling,” she said immediately, and reached out to hold him.

“Goodness, whatever is the matter with you?” Catriona asked, walking into the living room from the kitchen.

“We think it’s tied to whatever is messing with Phil. He’s… irrationally jealous,” Natasha told the druid as she let Clint cling tightly to her. “Over the top, insanely protective,” she added, looking down at him.

“I feel like a cave man,” Clint grumbled, sliding his hands over Natasha to reassure himself that she was unharmed. “I can barely think past keeping them safe.”

“Them?” Natasha asked.

“He probably means me,” Phil said, coming in the back door as well. He didn’t bother discarding jacket or tie, just stepped close enough for Clint to wrap an arm around him as well. “I started to wonder, after he fussed over me this afternoon—”

“I did not fuss over you.”

“Clint. You made me tea, you threatened me with medical, and you called Catriona – about a headache,” his husband said gently. “I had concerns.”

Catriona frowned. “Achara, are you experiencing anything untoward?”

“Not that I know of,” she said with a small smile. “Other than wanting to assert my independence.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint groaned again.

Annoyance flickered across Natasha’s face at his repeated apologies, but she didn’t let him see it on her face or in her mind. Phil did, and cupped her cheek with his hand. “You’re always independent, my love. You’re just gracious enough to let us walk beside you.”

Her irritation faded and she pressed a sweet kiss to the palm of his hand. “I love you both,” she murmured against his palm, voice barely audible though both her husbands heard her.

“I love you both,” Clint and Phil responded in unison, and Phil tugged Clint gently away from Natasha. “Let her get changed, pretty bird. We’re having a guest for dinner, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Aside from me, treorai?” Catriona asked.

“Yes, one of our trainees – Misty Summers – came to me today… she can see our rings. All three of them,” Phil told the druid as he soothed Clint. “Natasha decided you needed to meet her.”

Catriona nodded even as she was reaching into the left sleeve of her robe, retrieving her satchel and rifling through the contents. “Come into the kitchen, boghdoir,” she told Clint. “I’ve a tea that should help.”

“Of course you do.” Clint followed obediently, but kept his hand so firmly in Phil’s that the older agent was forced to follow him.

Catriona prepared the tea, setting a steaming cup in front of him and peering in his eyes as though she could diagnose him by sight. “Poor dear,” she said sympathetically. “You three are the most unusual individuals… you have strong reactions to our holy days, but they are not what I have come to expect. I am afraid it means I am ill prepared to warn you, ere the trouble has started.”

Clint sipped the tea carefully, and discovered that, like Phil’s headache remedy, it was tasty as well as effective. “I’m not sure I like being specialer than the average Warrior,” Clint grumbled.

Catriona laughed fondly, patting his hand and returning to the stove. “What time will your guest be arriving, treorai?”

Phil didn’t answer her as he had been distracted by the reentry of Natasha, now clad in a yellow sundress and white heels, her hair curled and make-up freshened. Phil blinked, offering her a hand. “Why the dress?” he asked, though not in any form of complaint.

“Easiest way to show Buffy – Misty – that this is not SHIELD is for me to look completely different,” Natasha told him, letting him pull her in close to nestle against him. He and Clint were still holding hands, so she was able to press up against Clint as well. “Besides… I like rendering you speechless.”

“I should change, too,” Clint said, having drained his teacup. He was able to release Phil’s hand and rolled his neck and shoulders. “Thanks, sis. I don’t know how you do it, but that’s exactly what I needed.” He stepped around the kitchen island and dropped an affectionate kiss on Catriona’s forehead.

“Always, brother. Achara, as it was your dramatic entrance which rendered Phil near speechless, perhaps you would answer my question? At what time is your guest expected?”

Natasha slid her phone out of her bra – a move that made Phil swallow convulsively – and checked her messages. “Half an hour, give or take.” She returned the phone to its hiding place, catching sight of Phil’s expression as she did so. It was so unlike him that she had to laugh. “Dresses rarely have pockets, loverling. Rather than have every single dress I own altered, I add pockets to my bras.”

“Clever,” Catriona complimented. “Were I to don them regularly, I would likely follow your example.” She was dressed in her usual robe and bare feet – the only thing unusual about her appearance was that she had pulled her hair back into a low ponytail while she cooked.

“I thought you were looking forward to my cooking?” Phil asked Catriona, tearing his eyes away from Natasha long enough to raise an eyebrow at the druid.

“Oh, I am,” she responded easily. “But it seemed foolish not to cook while I was here, so that we could eat at a reasonable hour. If you were inclined to put something together for dessert, though…” Catriona wheedled.

Phil laughed and donned the apron which hung on a hook on the side of the fridge. Natasha sat down on Clint’s vacant stool, resting her chin in her hand. “I do love watching you cook, treorai,” she told her husband. He shot her an amused grin and reached into the cupboard above the stove where he kept his cookbooks. He drew out a battered hand-bound notebook and began flipping through the pages.

“What is that?” Catriona asked, peering around him to see the book.

“Family recipes,” he responded absently, still turning pages. “Each of us kids has a copy – mine just gets more use.” He settled on a recipe and began pulling ingredients out of cupboards, attention wholly on the brownie pudding he was planning.

Clint reappeared, grinning in Phil’s direction. “I can never decide if I like it better with jeans or a suit,” he said in a stage whisper to Natasha. “The jeans have that extra… grip… but the suit and apron are so unexpected.”

Natasha chuckled and slipped her free hand into Clint’s. He’d put on a pair of black jeans and a purple shirt – the one that matched his toenail polish – with actual sleeves. It was as far away from his SHIELD uniform as her sundress was – and one of her favorite looks on him as well. “One of these days, maybe we can get him to wear just the apron.”

“No, thank you,” Phil answered, proving he wasn’t as immersed in his baking as it appeared. “There are delicate parts that I prefer not to spill hot ingredients on.”

Catriona laughed. “Doesn’t the apron cover those?”

Phil raised his eyebrows at her while Clint and Natasha snickered. “Why, little one, did you just make an off-color joke?” he teased gently.

“Just because I have not tasted the wine myself does not mean that I cannot appreciate its qualities,” she answered serenely, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Whatcha cooking, sis?” Clint asked, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma stirred up.

“Irish stew,” she answered. “Lamb, potatoes, carrots, onions. Tis a traditional Ostara meal, and I find stew a welcome supper in most any home.”

Natasha let out a contented sigh, relaxing onto the stool, leaning lightly against Clint. These were the moments that made the secrecy worth it – the quiet, domestic times where she could just be Natasha Romanoff-Barton-Coulson… even if she only ever used that name in her head.

~ * ~


	6. Chapter 6

The doorbell startled Natasha out of her contented contemplation, and she rose to her feet to answer it, the skirt of her dress swishing around her knees. Clint watched it appreciatively. Phil, who had just slid the brownie pudding into the oven, started to remove his apron but Clint shook his head. “Leave it on, Moonbeam,” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not going to parade around in an apron like June Cleaver,” Phil griped, but then got a better look at Clint’s face. “What is it, pretty bird?”

Clint bit his lip, trying to find a way to explain his feelings – he didn’t like the idea of Misty admiring his husband, and there wasn’t really a way to make Phil look less delicious – but the apron might distract her from watching him, and – 

“We’re in the kitchen,” Natasha was saying over her shoulder as she led Misty in. She exchanged glances with Clint, well aware of his inner turmoil. “Misty, this is Catriona – Catriona, this is Misty Summers.”

Catriona curtseyed automatically, then laughed at herself. “My apologies, Miss Summers. I never have adjusted to modern greetings. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Misty was a bit overwhelmed. She’d expected something less domestic and more… military? She wasn’t even sure what she’d expected. Being greeted at the door by the Black Widow in a yellow sundress hadn’t been on the list. Catching sight of Hawkeye’s purple toenails – did he buy the shirt to match the polish or the polish to match the shirt? – hadn’t been either. And Agent Coulson with an apron on top of his suit, with smears of what looked like cake batter on it? She was pretty sure she’d crossed into another dimension. The petite redhead in a white garment that looked like a cross between a white witch costume and a graduation robe was just the cherry on the top – and really, who the hell curtseyed?

“Oh dear, I think we’ve broken her,” Catriona murmured. “You didn’t tell her I’d be here, did you?” she asked Phil. “Treorai, that was rude.”

“I’m not the one who invited her,” Phil answered drily. He removed the apron – despite Clint’s inarticulate protest – and his jacket, hanging both on their respective hooks. Then he undid his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing the white undershirt. Natasha stepped to him and helped him roll the sleeves up, her movements efficient but gentle.

“Oh?” Catriona asked, looking from Phil to Misty. “I was under the impression she was your protege.”

“She is,” Phil agreed. When Natasha had finished tucking his sleeves to her satisfaction, he kissed her lightly. Misty’s eyes widened further, but Natasha did not protest his unusual need to display his affection. “Natasha wanted her to meet you, so Natasha invited her.” He grinned at Catriona. “What Natasha wants, Natasha gets.”

“Damned right,” Natasha murmured in response. She gestured to one of the stools at the island – there were only two, and Clint was seated on one of them. “Pull up a stool, Misty.”

Misty sat as ordered, unable to relax yet. She was still half convinced that this was an elaborate undercover ploy, that she’d discover herself the object of some bizarre hazing ritual.

Catriona, appreciating the stunned expression on Misty’s face, reached into her sleeve and pulled out her satchel, picking through its contents until she found what she wanted. She brewed a cup of tea and slid it over the counter to Misty. “Drink,” she ordered, using more of what Natasha considered her ‘High Priestess’ tone than she generally did in conversation. “It will help.”

Misty sipped it automatically, her eyes widening at the taste. “Okay, I don’t know how you pulled this out of your sleeve – oh God, you really did pull it out of your sleeve.” Natasha laughed, which only seemed to make Misty more uneasy. After another sip of tea, Misty set the cup down, rubbed her eyes, and folded her hands in her lap. “Okay. So. This is completely bizarre, and I have no idea how you guys do it.”

“Do what? Keep our personal and private lives separate?” Phil asked, moving to stand next to Clint. His husband was visibly struggling not to place himself between Natasha and Misty, so Phil purposely put Clint between himself and their guest, running a comforting hand down his back.

“Yeah,” Misty answered, watching the casually loving gesture with an odd expression on her face. “So the locker room talk about you is just talk?” she asked Clint.

“Depends,” he answered tightly. {Goddess, I don’t know if I can do this,} he confessed to Natasha silently.

Natasha stepped up to him as well, her own hand sliding to the small of his back, letting him feel that he was her shield as well. “If you mean the tales of sordid affairs and one night stands, you are correct – it’s just talk.” She rubbed Clint’s back gently.

“Are you okay, sir?” Misty asked timidly.

“I’m not sir at home,” Clint retorted. “Clint. Or Barton, if you must. And no, I’m really not.” He leaned into his spouse’s touch, taking deep breaths. “Sis, would more of that tea help, or am I just SOL?”

Catriona raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know what that means, but I dare not make you another cup of tea – I do not want to dull your reactions too deeply.”

“It means ‘shit out of luck,’ which is a pretty fair description,” Phil replied.

Misty’s eyes had widened even further. “Is there something I can do? Do you need me to go?”

“No,” Clint sighed. “This is on me, and I’ll work through it. Just… just don’t…”

Catriona leaned over the counter to touch his hand gently, taking over the explanation when he did not seem able to continue. “My dhearthair – brother – is feeling particularly protective of his spouses today. It is most likely tied to today’s celebration of Ostara, though their particular bonds to Gaia mean their reactions are outside the norm for Warriors. He is attempting to warn you not to express interest in either of them, because he fears he would react overmuch.”

That had sounded like an explanation, but Misty was damned sure she didn’t understand half of it. “Brother?” she repeated. “Ostara? Gaia?”

Phil dropped his head to rest on Clint’s for a moment. “Little one, your explanation made things even less clear,” he told Catriona, who wrinkled her nose at him. “Is the stew done?”

“Aye, and the rolls,” Catriona told him, whisking a napkin off a basket of fresh rolls.

“Let’s eat, and I’ll try to explain some of this in layman’s terms,” Phil said, reaching into the cupboard for bowls.

~ * ~

Over Catriona’s delicious stew, Phil patiently explained Gaia, her Chosen Warriors, the Druids, and his own susceptibility to Druidic holy days. Misty was primarily quiet throughout his explanation, interrupting only a few times to ask for clarification. When Phil was done, she sat back in her chair, her bowl of stew empty, and regarded the four of them with that same odd expression she’d worn earlier.

“Alright, out with it, Misty,” Natasha said finally, when it appeared the trainee wasn’t going to speak unbidden.

“So, me seeing the rings – that have anything to do with the fact that my mom’s side of the family is Irish?” Misty asked, looking at Catriona.

“It very well could,” the druid responded calmly. “And what clan – what surname did your mother bear before she married?”

“Her maiden name is O’Brady, but there’s a million O’Bradys. I haven’t a clue how long the family has been in the US or what part of Ireland they came from.”

Catriona’s eyes narrowed. “Is Padraig a familiar name to you? Or it would be Patrick, I suppose, in current vernacular.”

Misty blinked. “Isn’t it in every Irish family?”

“She’s got a point,” Clint admitted. He’d settled as they ate. It helped that Natasha and Phil had sat with both Clint and Catriona between them and Misty – intentionally helping ease his irrational jealousy. Of course, he could attribute just as much of his relaxation to Catriona’s cooking… stew always made him feel cared for.

“It makes me wonder,” Catriona admitted. “Are there tales in your history of Father Padraig O’Brady? He is also known as The Grey Gardener.”

The triad exchanged startled looks. “Is that another druid?” Natasha asked.

“Yes. Answer, please, Miss Summers.”

Misty straightened up in her chair at the authoritative tone in Catriona’s voice. “I’ve heard some of the great-aunts talk about a Father Padraig, but I assumed he was a priest at their old parish.”

Catriona rose, carefully setting her napkin down next to her empty bowl, and walked into the living room. Even at that remove, they could hear a stream of invective pouring out of her – some in Gaelic, some in English – some in languages none of them recognized. After several minutes of stunned silence, she returned, her face back to its usual composure, her posture as queenly as any crowned head could ever boast.

“Sis?” Clint asked cautiously – because the last thing he wanted to do was set off another spate of cursing.

“My apologies for my outburst,” Catriona said, inclining her head at each of the triad in turn. Then she returned her full attention to Misty, who sat back against her chair at the force of the druid’s regard. “I cannot know it for certain without speaking to either The Grey Gardener or Gaia, but I believe you are descended of druidic blood. It would explain your ability to see past Her charm on the triad’s rings, and also explain some of the charisma you bear which first brought you to our treorai’s – to Phil’s attention.”

“Is… uh… is that a bad thing?” Misty asked.

“No.” Catriona’s answer was sharp.

“Okay… then why do I feel like you’re about to drop a ten-ton brick on top of me?”

Catriona blinked, sitting back in her own chair. “I do apologize, Miss Summers. Misty. I… have a complicated relationship with my fellow druids. To be confronted with one of their descendants has me, I fear, at a disadvantage.”

“You can never tease me about talking like I’m giving a deposition again,” Phil told Catriona, using his best Agent Coulson voice. It was enough to startle her into laughter. “Much better.”

“Do you want to step out and verify with Gaia?” Natasha asked. “There’s a bare patch of soil in the back.”

The druid rose to her feet again, this time with more grace. “I believe I shall do that. Excuse me, please. I will return shortly.” Catriona padded out of the dining room and through the living room to the back door, stepping into the evening air and closing the door behind her.

Clint rubbed at his face with his hands. “Maybe I’m not the only one feeling irrationally protective today,” he suggested quietly.

“You could be right,” Natasha agreed, slipping her hand into his again. She couldn’t seem to stop herself, even when it made Misty’s eyes widen.

“Why does it matter so much to her?” Misty asked, puzzlement in her expression.

Phil and Natasha exchanged a look that made Misty’s heart ache – she’d seen her parents exchange those looks before, the type that said ten thousand words and half of them were ‘I love you.’ Phil finally spoke. “I believe the answer is in two parts – one, she does not seem to like her fellow druids. This is the first time we’ve ever heard her use the name of any of them, rather than the title. And two – she very much wishes that she had descendants.” He reached for Natasha’s other hand and squeezed it, hoping she could see in his eyes what he did not want to voice aloud – that he wished, also.

“Descendants?” Misty repeated. “Kids?”

“Yes.” Natasha’s voice was low, her tone regretful. “She has not yet found her achroi ghra – her heart mate, her soulmate.”

Not for nothing was Misty one of the SHIELD academy’s top graduates in her year. Her gaze narrowed on Natasha, now holding the hands of both of her husbands. She added one and one and one and came up with four.

“Are you…?” she asked delicately.

“No,” Phil murmured when Natasha couldn’t answer. “This can’t very well be a secret if we get pregnant, can it?”

Abruptly the enormity of what they were showing her – what they were trusting her with – hit her with almost bodily force. She met Natasha’s eyes, and the other woman nodded solemnly, acknowledging the burden they’d laid on her. Misty closed her eyes, lip trembling. She understood now why there were agents of SHIELD whose loyalty wasn’t to the agency, but to the man in his shirtsleeves sitting two seats away from her. The trust he placed in her – it was humbling, and frightening, and exhilarating. She didn’t need to ask why anymore – she knew. She understood why she’d been invited into their home, let to witness their small intimacies and private happiness.

She would stand between these three and the gates of Hell, because they trusted her absolutely.

~ * ~


	7. Chapter 7

Misty was jarred out of her self-realization when Catriona came back into the house, her face once again serene. She paused at Misty’s side on her way to her chair. “I apologize, Miss Summers – Misty. I am not usually so… excitable.” Her eyes met Clint’s. “It seems that you are not the only one feeling the effects of Ostara today, dhearthair. I have never experienced this – but then, it has been millennia since I had people in my life that I would protect at all costs.” She returned her gaze to Misty. “Great Mother – Gaia – informs me that you are descended of Father Padraig O’Brady, he who is also known as the Grey Gardener.” Her lips twisted wryly. “In terms of heritage, I will tell you that he is at least the druid I dislike the least – and the triad owes him a debt of gratitude as well.”

“We do?” Clint asked.

“Aye, he assisted in your journey from the farm to Phil, back in June,” Catriona told him. “Older gentleman, looks like a farmer?”

Natasha blinked. “That was a druid?”

“Did you think just anyone would be available at half a moment’s notice to drive two of Her Warriors to catch a flight home to secure the safety of their achroi ghra?”

Clint snorted. “Alright. When you put it that way, it makes perfect sense.”

“So he’s what, my grandfather?” Misty pressed.

“The relationship is apparently somewhat more distant. Mother was not specific – just a general sense that it has been perhaps a century since he has been involved with your family. I do not know if he is even aware that he still has living descendants – though I will make an effort to inform him, if you wish it.”

“I… no.” Misty shook her head. “If he hasn’t had anything to do with the family in a hundred years, there’s no reason for him to start now. Besides, if you don’t like him, I don’t want to have him hanging around and making you uncomfortable.” She twisted a little in her chair. “I get the feeling that someone who’d leave the room to swear in ten languages, return and apologize is a better friend than someone who hasn’t had anything to do with his descendants in a century.”

Catriona’s smile was sudden, with the brilliant cheeriness that the triad was accustomed to seeing on her face – for a moment it was almost as though she glowed. The druid put a gentle hand on Misty’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, laoch beag. I would not stand between you and your kin were you to wish it, however. If you change your mind, you need only pass word to me through one of the triad, and I will connect you with the Grey Gardener.”

“What did you call me?” Misty asked. 

“Warrior something,” Natasha supplied, recognizing at least one word.

“Little warrior,” Catriona corrected with a smile. “It was not meant as a comment on your age or size, but rather your junior status. I apologize if it offends.”

Misty shook her head. “I like it. Don’t suppose we can get the squad to call me that instead of Buffy?” she asked Clint hopefully.

He snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“You’re going with first names?” Phil asked curiously.

“Oh, hell.” Clint grimaced. “There’s been so much going on today, I forgot to brief you.” He summarized their afternoon training session, with Natasha and Misty filling in details as they went. Catriona returned to the kitchen long enough to brew a pot of tea, which she poured as the discussion continued.

“Interesting choice,” Phil took the cup of tea from Catriona gratefully, sitting back in his chair and regarding Misty. “Purposely aiming away from the militaristic approach. I would have thought Bellamy – Chuck – would object.”

“Do you?” Misty couldn’t help asking.

“No,” he reassured her with a small smile. “Your squad, your call. I’m just curious how it came about.”

Misty took her cup of tea as well, tasting it cautiously and making a pleased sound at the light, fruity taste. “Over beer,” she admitted. “The beer was Chuck’s idea.”

“Trust a Marine to debate tactics over beer,” Phil muttered, but gestured for her to continue.

“It was the whole squad – according to him, it’s team-building.” She grinned. “I think it’s an excuse to see what the Scoobies say under the influence.”

“No doubt,” Natasha drawled. She turned sideways in her chair until she was leaning back on Phil’s shoulder and kicked her feet up on Clint’s lap.

“You know, we could go sit in the living room,” Phil told her with amusement.

She rose and kissed him swiftly. “And that’s why you’re the tactician and we’re just foot soldiers,” she told him, then tugged on the collar of his shirt to get him to stand up. She reached over and grabbed Clint’s sleeve, and he laughingly followed. Catriona and Misty lagged behind until the triad had settled onto the couch in their usual positions – Phil sitting lengthwise in the corner with Natasha and Clint leaning against him, pressed together. Catriona sat down at his feet, tucking her own up so that she was touching him as well, and Misty took a lone armchair, feeling oddly out of place.

“We need to invest in sleeping bags like your parents have,” Clint told his husband. “Lily was really on to something with that makeshift cuddle nest.” Misty’s eyebrows flew up and Clint laughed. “Lily’s our eleven-year-old niece. At Christmas, the twins decided they both wanted Auntie Nat cuddles and we were hogging them all, so Lily layered two sleeping bags on the floor so we could pile on them and watch Christmas movies. The twins and their mothers, us three, Catriona… it was awesome.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a cuddler,” Misty admitted.

Natasha tried to stifle her laugh, and Phil turned his head away to hide a smile, but Clint guffawed. “No one turns down a Catriona cuddle. Besides, who can argue with twin nieces who want to snuggle my wife?”

“Not you, apparently,” Misty said dryly.

Catriona chuckled. “I like you. As does Gaia, I might add.” At an alarmed look from Natasha, she shook her head. “No, not as though she’s likely to be Chosen – though I would not presume to know Her mind in all things. Just that, you have Her favor – being able to see through Her charm is an example of that. I expect you are also good with houseplants, and able to put people at ease. They are common traits, in those who have Her favor.”

Misty had been nodding along as Catriona spoke. “Okay. I can agree with that. It’s nice to know I’m not an immediate candidate for… what did you call it, being Chosen? Don’t get me wrong, some of the perks sound nice, but I think I’ll stick with being an agent of… SHIELD, for now.”

“Why the hesitation?” Phil asked.

She blushed. Damn the man, there wasn’t anyone else on the planet who could make her blush twice in one day.

Natasha’s smile started small but grew as Misty squirmed. “Agent of Coulson?” she asked Misty, who looked mortified but nodded. “Thought so.” She tilted her head up to kiss her husband. “Face it, loverling – it isn’t SHIELD that we serve.” Clint had gone tense behind her, his arm tightening around her waist. He made a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper, and Phil kissed the top of his head immediately, soothingly.

“She’s not competing with you, pretty bird,” he murmured. “I don’t want anyone but you two. You know that.”

“I know that,” Clint agreed, gritting his teeth. He didn’t even protest the nickname – though generally in front of others it would have caused him to gripe.

“Oh, shit. Hell, no,” Misty said immediately, leaning back in her chair. “I am no home wrecker. Jesus. Even if he weren’t so very married, he’s not my type.”

Phil flashed her a grateful look, kissing Clint’s forehead again. It took several more moments before Clint could relax, and then he buried his face in Natasha’s hair.

“He’s sorry,” Natasha told Misty. “He’s just going to keep his mouth shut for now.” After a pause, she added, “but he’s dying to know what your type actually is, and I’ll admit to some curiosity myself.”

Misty grimaced. “Not military, not bureaucratic, not dangerous. Someone with an absolutely safe and boring day job, like… I don’t know, a librarian.” She shifted in her chair. “I guess it’s safe to say it here, but I don’t really care about gender – I mean, I care, but I don’t prefer one over the other.”

“I knew I saw you check out Nat’s legs,” Clint murmured through a mask of red hair. 

“Well, duh.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve never seen her in a dress. Of course I looked. I’m commitment phobic, not blind.”

“Commitment phobic?” Catriona repeated, puzzled. “Whyever for?”

The blonde brushed an invisible piece of lint off her pants, biting her lip. “I don’t ever want someone to get the knock on the door for me that my mom got, for my dad.”

{Oh, I feel like a dumb ass,} Clint remarked silently to Natasha. {Yeah, she looks at Phil with something like love in her eyes. What do you want to bet her dad was KIA?}

“He was a police officer,” Misty continued, not making eye contact. “Killed in the line. I was twelve. Mom never got over it.”

“Move,” Phil ordered his spouses, and they scrambled off of him. He knelt next to Misty’s chair, forcing her to lift her eyes from the carpet to meet his. “I can’t replace your dad, Misty, but I don’t mind standing in for him now and again.”

“You do that for all your proteges?” she asked, trying to sound snarky but coming off more shaky than anything.

“No,” Phil said, smiling barely. “I married the last two.”

Misty blew out a breath, her bangs fluttering. “Okay. Does that mean I can have a hug? Because I could really use one.”

In answer, Phil stood just enough that he could wrap comforting arms around her shoulders, tucking her head under his chin. “Yes, Misty. It means you can have a hug. Here, in this house, hugs are always allowed.”

~ * ~


	8. Chapter 8

When Phil released her, he carefully didn’t notice that her eyes were overbright, just returned to his position on the couch and invited his spouses back into his arms. They took a few moments to settle, making soft contented noises that made Catriona smile. “The three of you sound like a litter of kittens,” she told them with fondness.

“Speaking of kittens,” Misty seized on the topic with both hands, steering towards hopefully safer territory. “With a name like Catriona, I kind of expected everyone to call you Cat.”

Catriona tilted her head to one side, regarding Misty carefully. The blonde was wondering just what fresh crap she’d stepped in when Catriona shook her head. “No. That name is reserved for my achroi ghra to use, someday. It is… something a Seer told me, a very long time ago.”

Seer. Right. Misty mentally readjusted her worldview again to include fantastical beings aside from the two Chosen Warriors and Druid sitting on the couch across from her. Her intellectual acrobatics must have shown on her face, because Phil chuckled softly.

“If it’s any consolation, it took me quite a while to come to terms with all of it as well,” he told kindly. “Things happened very quickly, in the beginning, and I was just trying to keep up.”

“You hid it well,” Natasha told him.

Clint snorted. “He always does.”

“Speaking of hiding…” Phil sighed. “I suppose we should talk about ground rules.”

Misty raised an eyebrow. “Um, I can kind of guess them. I don’t know anything about any of your personal lives, and I definitely have never heard you call each other ridiculously cute pet names, and if someone asks me if you three – or any combination – are together, I should laugh hysterically like it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“She is good,” Catriona said approvingly.

“There’s an added layer to that,” Natasha told her, straightening up somewhat from her lounging position on Phil. “Fury – the Director – can’t know that you know Catriona. He definitely can’t know that you like her, and we’d all be better off if he’s never aware how often she’s here.”

“Okay?” Her agreement was immediate, but there was definitely a question in her tone.

Catriona wrinkled her nose. “He and I have had some… unpleasant encounters in the past.”

“He keeps calling you ‘that witch,’ and every time he does it I have to remind myself that if I hit him, I’m out of a job,” Phil confessed. “He found one of your hairs on my shirt this afternoon, after the three of you browbeat me into that nap.” He glared in mock-irritation. “It appears he believes you are my mysterious paramour.”

Catriona’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened – probably to say something quite rude – before she snapped it shut and closed her eyes. “Please do not let him use me against you, treorai,” she asked quietly. “I could not bear it, to be responsible for you leaving your vocation.”

“I’m not,” Phil assured her. He nudged her comfortingly with one sock-clad foot. “When I leave SHIELD, it will be on my own terms.”

“When?” Misty repeated, startled.

He glanced over at her. “Eventually. I don’t have an exit strategy mapped out.” He gave her a half smile. “But someday…”

Clint and Natasha echoed him. “Someday.”

“When someday comes, can I have babysitting rights?” Misty asked timidly. She had drawn her own sock-feet up into the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees, looking younger than her years and very much different from the charismatic squad leader she was at SHIELD.

Natasha’s smile started small, but by the time she spoke, it was as bright as Catriona’s had been earlier. She was delighted that Misty had understood what someday meant to them – pleased that the young woman had taken Phil’s physical reassurance and incorporated it into their relationship now – and surprised at her own warm feelings towards Misty. “Yes, laoch baeg. Someday.”

Misty squirmed her shoulders against the chair in a tiny victory dance. “So, aside from not talking about absolutely anything I know, any guidelines I should know about?”

“Not that I can think of.” Phil looked down at his spouses. “You?”

“You can’t let the squad see you acting any differently,” Natasha cautioned. “Or you need to have a plausible explanation ready, in case they do.”

The blonde waved a hand airily. “That’s easy. As squad leader, you two have been spiriting me off for private training sessions, because you want me to have a broader knowledge base than is necessary for the others right now. I’m so upset about it,” she said, throwing her hand over her eyes in mock drama. “We get so little free time as it is, and every time I step into my quarters thinking I can grab a few hours of sleep, either Hawk or Widow pops out of nowhere and insists I have to go learn underwater basket weaving or some other equally obscure and absurd topic. I’ll get so much sympathy.” She tilted her head. “I might even get free beer out of it.”

“Blonde, sarcastic, deadly – you really do have a type, don’t you?” Natasha elbowed Phil, who grunted.

“Clint’s got better biceps,” Phil answered placidly, giving the body part in question an affectionate squeeze.

Misty sniffed at the air. “Is that… chocolate?” she asked, scenting the room like a bloodhound.

“Oh, I forgot dessert. Yes.” Phil started to ease Natasha and Clint back off of him when Catriona jumped up.

“I’ll get it, treorai,” she assured him, kissing his forehead as she walked past him.

“So… why does Fury call her a witch?” Misty asked as soon as she thought Catriona was out of earshot.

“She won’t tell us.” Clint sounded for all the world like a five-year-old denied a cookie.

Phil squeezed his arm, a quiet reprimand. “They have truly philosophical differences – but those differing philosophies can put lives in danger or save them. It appears to be very personal, on both sides. I would guess at some point Fury made a choice that Catriona disagreed with – one which resulted in serious injury or death.” His eyes flashed to the kitchen. “But Clint’s right, she won’t tell us – and I suggest not pressing her for details.”

“Yes, sir,” Misty acquiesced immediately.

Phil grinned at her. “Clint isn’t sir in this house, and neither am I. Phil, please. Or treorai, or nearly any other nickname you want – except that one Clint uses that I won’t repeat.” Misty looked intrigued, but he shook his head. “No, that one is far too private.”

“I don’t know that I can call you by your first name,” Misty admitted. “It’s… umm…” Phil raised an eyebrow, and her shoulders slumped forward. “Alright, I have an ex named Phil. A very, very, very much ex that I’d rather not think about. So I can’t call you that.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed. “Do we need to find this false Phil and educate him on the ways to treat a lady?”

Misty laughed, but there was sadness in it. “No. Thanks though. What else do you go by? That Gaelic word seems very… family only.”

“After tonight, I was rather hoping you’d consider yourself part of that,” Phil told her quietly. “But if Gaelic is not to your liking…” he grimaced. “I’ll tell you what my sisters call me, if you swear to me you won’t repeat it in front of… well, anyone but us.”

“That embarrassing?” Misty asked, a smile creeping up.

“Darla – oldest sister – couldn’t say ‘Philip’ for the longest time, so she called me Lip. It stuck.”

Only great effort of will kept Misty from bursting into laughter, but she restrained herself. “No. That won’t do it, either. It’s a fine nickname and all, but I didn’t earn it.”

Natasha tilted her head, examining Misty intently. “Sensei,” she announced.

“Yes!” Misty seized on it immediately. “And it won’t matter if I slip and call you that in public, because you really are my teacher, so it works.” She let out a relieved sigh, bangs fluttering. “You’re a genius, Agent – Natasha.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Clint griped without feeling.

Catriona appeared in the doorway to the living room. “Dessert is served,” she said with a smile. “It seems a dish best eaten at the table.”

“It is,” Phil agreed as the triad untangled themselves. Misty watched, her expression still a little closed off, but no longer wary. “Come on, Buffy. Stake yourself some brownie pudding.”

“Aw, man,” she groaned, as the rest laughed.

~ * ~


	9. Chapter 9

As Natasha savored her dessert – she’d learned that pretty much anything Phil made out of that battered cookbook was delicious – she surreptitiously watched their trainee and new… friend? She wasn’t certain what the correct terminology would be. She wasn’t just a student anymore, but she was closer to family than friend. Not a sibling – not what she felt for Catriona, certainly. 

Clint caught her eye, amusement plain on his face. “The word you’re looking for is ‘cousin’, Sunshine. She feels like a cousin.”

“Did you mean to say that aloud?” Natasha asked.

“No, damn it.” Clint shook his head as they laughed.

“He’s right, though,” Phil said slowly, spooning up another mouthful of cake-and-pudding. “Cousin is a pretty fair description.”

“You mean me?” Misty squeaked.

Natasha smiled at her. It was one of her rare, open smiles – one she reserved for private moments, usually with her husbands or nieces and nephews. Misty smiled back, a little hesitantly. “We mean you, laoch beag. ‘Cousin’ is easier to say, for certain,” she added with a sideways grin at Catriona.

The druid sniffed. “Gaelic is not that challenging, achara. Welsh, now – that’s a bit more work.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Clint asked curiously.

“More than are currently spoken in the world,” Catriona answered with a small smile. “Learning languages is one of the ways in which I pass time at my Vale – my home, when I am not actively serving my Mistress.”

“Wait, so you guys just… randomly adopt family members?” Misty asked incredulously.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have any,” Natasha answered quietly. “Phil has a family – parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews – Clint has a brother and his family. I have…” she shrugged. “I have this.” She gestured with her spoon, encompassing all of them at the table.

“My family is your family, now,” Phil reminded her. Clint seconded him, reaching over to squeeze Natasha’s hand gently.

“I… just have my mom,” Misty said haltingly. “But she’s not… um. She’s not well.” At Catriona’s raised eyebrow, Misty forced herself to continue. “Dementia. Early onset.”

“She’s in an excellent care facility,” Phil added. “It was part of Misty’s signing package.”

Natasha eyed her husband, pointing her spoon at him. “You knew.”

“Of course I knew,” he said calmly. “There isn’t anything about the Scoobies that I don’t know – with the exception of Edwards. Angie. As you selected her, Misty, I haven’t had time to complete my investigation of her.”

“Why?” Misty managed to ask, though it was difficult to speak. She wasn’t sure how to describe her reaction – it wasn’t betrayal, because she’d known SHIELD did intensive research on their recruits, and once she’d been assigned to Agent Coulson she’d learned his vetting process was yet more exhaustive. It was closer to sadness – how many secrets did he carry? Her own past was no picnic, but she knew that others had it a lot worse – including Natasha, it seemed. There was also awe – how could he treat everyone so… normally… when he knew how damaged they were?

“It’s my job to know.” He lifted his hand to draw Misty’s attention. “Unless there’s an immediate need, those details go no further. Had you not mentioned your mother, I would not have brought it up.”

Clint frowned, crossing his arms. “Any more of them have murky spots we need to not step in?” He didn’t mention his earlier conversation with CJ in front of Misty – that wasn’t his story to tell – but he didn’t want more talks like that in his near future without some warning.

“Yes. And no, I won’t tell you now. If it becomes an issue, I will – but I should hope that they tell you of their histories themselves.” Phil knew that wasn’t the answer his husband wanted, but it was the only one he could give.

“Do I get informed, too, if it’s an issue?” Misty asked.

“If it is potentially an issue in the field, yes. If, for instance, we were to draw a case in which we were to extract someone from a facility such as the one your mother was in, it may be in the best interest of the team if the team lead – and perhaps the rest of the team – knew there was someone with personal experience relevant to the task.” He’d dropped into his Agent tone automatically, but an elbow to the ribs reminded him that they were at home. “Or if we were to go after a rogue SHIELD agent,” he continued, turning his eyes to his spouses.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Your own secrets too, loverling?”

“If it’s pertinent, yes.” He fidgeted with the spoon, his eyes downcast. “I devoutly hope it never is.”

Misty wanted to ask. Want wasn’t even a strong enough word. Whatever caused Agent Coulson – sensei – to draw in on himself like… well, like she did… it had to be bad. “Um.” Eyes turned towards her and she flinched. “I’m not gonna ask for details but, like, do I need to get the Scoobies together to run an off-books mission? Are you in trouble?”

Phil’s expression softened, and his smile was equal parts touched and amused. “No. I’m not in trouble. It’s history – painful, personal history, but nothing that can be changed now.”

Catriona, who’d stayed out of the conversation when it drifted into SHIELD, cleared her throat. “It is to treorai’s credit that he is the keeper of so many secrets. It is a heavy burden – as I well know – but when it is done to protect, it is a noble task.”

“And when it isn’t, it’s freaking annoying,” Clint grumbled, thinking of Fury’s tendency to give them just the bare minimum of information, doling out facts like they were rationed.

“Or dangerous,” Catriona added, her expression dark.

“Well, I hope I can be halfway as good at it as you are, sensei,” Misty said with a sigh, setting her spoon down next to her empty dessert bowl. “Is there anything you’re bad at?” she grumbled.

Clint snickered and Natasha’s smile of amusement was slightly wicked. “Oh, yes,” she answered for Phil, who was doing his best not to make eye contact with anyone. “He’s absolutely terrible at UNO.”

~ * ~

It was late by the time Misty finally left, a paper bag full of leftovers tucked under her arm. Natasha closed the door behind her with a satisfied smile. “That went even better than I had hoped,” she said to Phil, stepping close to wrap her arms around his neck. “You’re that girl’s hero now, you know, loverling.”

“I didn’t mean to be,” he demurred. Clint came up behind them, his arms going around Phil’s waist so that he could press his cheek to Phil’s shoulder blade.

“It wouldn’t work, if you meant to be,” Clint said. He inched his fingers along Phil’s waistband until he could reach Natasha as well, using one hand to pull her in closer. With both of them here, safe, and no one but Catriona in the house with them, he could relax for what felt like the first time all day.

Catriona watched them, a fond smile on her face. “I can see that the three of you are ready to turn in for the night. I should make my way back to my Vale.”

Phil turned his head to look at her, his brow furrowed. “You had a ritual today, right?”

“Aye, for Ostara.”

“And you think we’re going to send you away, to sleep alone in your Vale – or to force yourself not to sleep for days on end?”

“Ostara is a far less taxing ritual than Yule, treorai – I will be fine,” Catriona assured him.

Natasha and Clint exchanged glances around Phil, and Clint released their husband to step back and wrap one arm around Catriona instead. “Not a chance,” he told her firmly. “If it is in our power, we don’t ever want you to have to spend another ritual night alone.”

The druid wanted to protest – she had managed millennia without such support – but their presence after Yule had been a balm to her soul that she couldn’t resist. She let herself be pulled into Clint’s arms, tucking her head under his chin and feeling very small, and very cared for.

“Bed,” Phil ordered. He gently disengaged Natasha’s arms from his neck and made shooing gestures towards the stairs. Laughingly, Natasha trotted up the stairs – then tossed the yellow sun dress down after her.

“Oh, that’s cruel,” Clint said, snagging it out of the air. 

“Why?” Catriona asked, ducking out of range of the dress though she needn’t have worried – Clint caught it easily enough.

Phil ran a hand through his hair, not sure how to put it. “We aren’t going to… not with you in our bed.”

Catriona flushed. “Oh. Yes. That. I… thank you.”

Clint laughed and tugged at her to follow him upstairs. “She just likes to rile us up.”

Natasha reappeared, wearing a modest set of purple silk pajamas – that also matched Clint’s toenail polish, fact he found privately adorable – and handed Catriona a green set. The druid took them gratefully and stepped into the bathroom to change. Phil raised an eyebrow at Natasha, who shrugged. “I didn’t mean to make her uncomfortable,” she said in an undertone to Phil. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were, just not about her,” Clint corrected as he put on his own pajamas – Natasha had apparently decided on a theme, because there was a red set laid out for him and a blue set for Phil. “Why are we having a rainbow slumber party?”

One side of her mouth quirked up. “When you mix red and blue, what do you get?”

Phil laughed. “Clever girl.” He slipped into his own pair, pulling her close for a tender but chaste kiss.

Catriona emerged from the bathroom, looking somehow tinier in the green silk. The pants were too long and she’d shoved the sleeves up to her elbows. Phil extended a hand and she came to him willingly. “Thank you for letting me stay,” she said, resting her head against him. Natasha tucked an arm around her as well.

Clint, having claimed the middle spot on the bed, patting the covers on either side of him. “Come on in. Water’s warm.”

Laughing, the other three joined him – Catriona wound up between Clint and Phil – and settled in to sleep.  
~ * ~


End file.
